Gone
by BelleVie
Summary: When Howard gets hurt, Vince is alone and doesn't know what to do. A LOT angsty. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

It should be perfect. A candle lit bath with the soft buzz of the old CD player in the corner, classical music, his favourite of course, after the jazz. The whole room smells gorgeous, filled with the misty vapour of that expensive bath stuff Howard used to chastise Vince for even buying, even if he did steal a bit of it for himself on the sly. _Should be and used to._ Unneeded reminders, really, given the fact that Vince cannot rid himself of the guilt.

The flat has been completely empty for the past month and a half. Naboo _said_ he had shaman business to attend to with Bollo, but there has not been a single postcard, letter, phone call, email or text checking up. Not that he needs checking up on.

The day he quit his job, also the day after the accident, he gets a couple of phone calls from his party friends, asking if he's going to come out sometime, and he considers it – really _really_ does – because he'd quite like to lose himself in vodka and some nameless tart, but he can never bring himself to take up the offer because it was the partying that caused it – the _accident_ – and that what it was. But at the same time it was all Vince's fault, that his frie- no, lover will _never_ wake up.

_It'd been one in the morning, or something equally ridiculous, and once again, he'd found himself blind drunk, and giggling, as his friends and some girl with quite nice hair bid their farewells and climbed into taxis. He'd rummaged in his pockets for some money to catch a lift home – even the night bus – but found nothing more than lint and a safety pin. _

_Without even thinking, he'd rung Howard, and stuttered out a request to be picked up, in between laughing after falling over his own feet. The phone had clicked off, as the man on the other end of the line said nothing, torn between anger and the reality of the mundane repetitiveness of the situation._

_The journey from the pavement to getting in the car is fuzzy. Why should he even remember it? There was an argument in the car though. Hot, fierce words and anguish. He couldn't even reply. Too nauseous. _

_The next bit will stay with Vince forever – strangely clear amongst the intoxication. Tyres screeching and a short yell of surprise before the slick sound of flesh hitting metal and splatter of something against the crumpled dashboard. _

_He'd called out twice, voice hoarse and lungs crushed against the back of the seat, and was met with utter silence, before everything faded to static. _

That was 92 and a half days ago. Ninety two and a half days of guilt and heartbreak for putting his beloved in a _coma_. Only a 50 chance of ever waking, said the sympathetic doctor in her perfectly starched uniform. Risk of memory loss. Might not remember anything at all.

If Howard ever wakes up, he deserves a new start. Someone better. That's what leads Vince to this, being submerged in the picture-perfect bathroom, and sobbing silently, pressing the kitchen knife against his wrist with increasing pressure.

Its not as though he hasn't prepared everything. There's even a letter, addressed to Howard, but its tucked away in a place so secret, he'll only ever find it if he fully regains his memory.

Vince hopes he doesn't.

...

Inside the hospital, amongst the lullabies of quiet, pitching beeps, the alarm signalling increased heart rate and brain activity screeches, and the man in the bed nearest the window awakens.

**Fraff, first fic EVAR. **

**What can I say? I'm a bit of an angst slut. **

**Please please review?**

**Ève**

**xx**


	2. Chapter 2

Howard still can't remember everything. There's whole days and the odd week that he can't remember anything from, like when he supposedly went to Italy and accidently started a fight with someone in an ice cream parlour. There's photo's to prove it, pinned up around the bed – not the fight, obviously – but the trip itself. On one of them he's stood with Vince, silhouetted against the pink-orange of the sunset and they're _kissing_. But he can't remember it. The realisation that you can have gaping holes in your mind yet feel such deep rooted love for someone makes him ache in a way he cannot describe.

He still knows details too, in an odd, mechanical fashion. House addresses, phone numbers, birthdays, and what night to put the bins out. Everything else though, is patchy and wounded, strung together by random flashes of crystal-clear mundane activities. His life is nothing more than a jumbled mess.

He walks out of the hospital as soon as the coast is clear. Visiting hours, if the smeared black and white signs are to be believed, ended four hours ago. As he paces towards the exit on sleep-wasted legs there is a sick spasm of pain that makes him look beneath his crumpled shirt. A small scar, barely healed, zigzags across his ribcage. A worried looking student nurse shuffles over to him, seeing his confusion, and tucks a strand of bleached hair behind her ear. She looks impish, for all her beauty.

_Vince'd like her._ Howard thinks awkwardly.

"Excuse me, are you alright sir?" She says in a hushed whisper, so as not to disturb the sickly child balanced on her skinny hip.

"Huh? Oh, I'm fine! Just tired - I'm on my way home." _Home. _Something stirs in his stomach, not dissimilar to butterflies. The apprehension is driven away by the excitement of being able to go back to how it all was before the crash, which he remembers very little of. "Can you tell me where the pick up point is, for the taxis?"

"Of course sir. Go out the main doors, and turn to the left. There's a pay phone too." The nurse smiles sympathetically and wanders off into another corridor.

Outside, the winter air burns Howard's lungs, after over a month of having his oxygen piped in for him. The taxi booth is deserted, and the payphone has no receiver, the cord hanging down forlornly. He climbs in the first car that turns up, and doesn't look out the window until he sees a familiar flat looming up, and an even more familiar barely-there light coming from the bathroom.

**Okay, okay. Its probably awful and horrid and blah. And I know its a cliff hanger, but I promise, if I get any reviews, I will update TONIGHT.**

**Tara**

**xx**


	3. Chapter 3

**Final ever chapter. There will be no sequel. EVER. **

**...take from that what you will about the forthcoming chapter ;)**

**Special thanks to Beth for helping me with bits of this. Go read her story 'Just another day' instead of this stuff!**

Howard opens the door and slips inside silently. Everything looks the same, from what he can remember. The smell of the girly, sweetie-scented bath stuff Vince uses floats down the hall. Vince must be in the bath, having one of those hour long soaks and using up all the hot water. He isn't going to disturb him, because that ruins the surprise, even if his hand does hover over the door handle for an unnaturally long period.

In stark contrast though, the house is stone cold. When he'd stood in the porch, Howard'd been able to see little puffs of breath in front of him. Its not like Vince at all – usually the place would be like an oven – but he lets it slide, intent on surprising him when he finally makes his way out of the bathroom, because, hey, he's home.

Distantly he thinks if he's gone insane whilst in a coma, and decides rather than hanker outside the bathroom door – which is curiously silent – he'll go to the bedroom and have a look around, seen as its been well over a month since he was last here.

It's strangely comforting, when he pokes his head round the door and sees only one side of the bed rumpled, whilst his side remains pristine and untouched. Vince's side of the wall is covered in poster, bits of shiny foil, photographs and dangly things that always make a noise if the wind bows on them. Some of the items are peeling away though, purposely ripped and left to amongst their equally dishevelled friends. Howard feels himself grow uneasy, but tries to brush it off, when he realises not a sound has been made since he got in.

Distractedly, he glances at his side of the room, which is boring and bare in comparison. There's one poster, from the first concert he ever went to, and a painted picture of the Scarborough coast his mum gave him as a housewarming gift, all blending in with the background of peeling, floral wallpaper. On the floor, there are pile upon pile of books; Irvine Welsh and Chekhov, surrounded by old bus tickets and note scribbled on post-its. The thing that catches his eye is the old, crumbling copy of Romeo and Juliet, lying recently disturbed on the bedside table. He doesn't remember buying it, but instinct seems to tell him it's his. It looks expensive. The pages are edged with gold. One of them is curled in on itself and trapped between the spine and the rest of its velum companions.

Curiously, he picks it up and examines it. Its bloody heavy, but then again, his arm strength is a bit wilted from disuse. Slight annoyance blooms in a distant corner of his mind at the disrespect for such a beautiful article, as he unfurls the page, briefly looking at the decadent – if morbid – image of Juliet's tomb.

A single piece of hastily folded file paper springs onto the dusty old carpet. The unease is back full force, stronger. It makes Howard shudder violently. The room suddenly seems colder. He picks up the paper from the floor and unfolds it, the crinkling sound deafening in the small room.

_Dear Howard,_

_I suppose I hope you get this. I'm being selfish writing that, I know. You deserve a fresh start. I was the one who put you in hospital in the first place. They said you might never wake up. That you might never remember me. I don't think I could cope with that. All those years of wanting and hurting would be wasted. I'd go back to being broken and insecure and not being able to escape the aching darkness._

_I'd be alone again._

_I'm alone now. It hurts so much. _

_You're parents blame me. I can't say I don't agree with them. Of course it's my fault. If I hadn't have called you out that late to come and pick me up, you wouldn't have crashed head-on with the other car. You wouldn't be in hospital now. _

_I'm sorry I don't visit anymore. Everyone thinks I like the drama. I can't cope with it. I started cutting again, because it hurts less than thinking about what happened. Your sister called me mad when she accidently saw. I'm so sorry for that too. You thought you'd stopped me doing that. You did, but now you're gone. I guess old habits die hard. _

_I miss you and I'm alone and it hurts. So bad. _

_I love you. _

_Vince x_

Howard sits frozen for a spilt second, whilst the words sink in. His blood runs cold and its hard to breathe, then, shattering the peace he launches himself across the room and hammers on the bathroom door.

"Vince!" He shouts, uselessly. _Don't do this. _He grabs the handle and twists it, falling into the vapour and the metallic stench clinging to _everything_.

His worst nightmare has never looked so stunning.

Vince is laid in the bath, crimson swirled water – still steaming – up to his chest. On the edge of the bath is a knife. His back is arched, making his collarbones stand out, and his hair feather-blend into the porcelain of the bath. His eyes are open.

Howard fumbles a hand into the inky water, trying to find a wrist to get a pulse. The hand he pulls from the depths is grotesque. Smooth skin is shredded straight across the artery.

He's growing increasingly hysterical. He can't breathe.

With his gore slicked hand he presses two fingers against Vince's neck, impossibly cold and clammy.

Nothing.

The last candle extinguishes itself with a hiss.

**Sorry, sorry, sorry! **

**I'm evil I know!**

**Please review!**

**Eve**

**x**


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